


Beautiful dreamers

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dreams, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Requited Love, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is struggling with insomnia due to some unsettling dreams. Naturally Sherlock is curious. But you know what they say about curiosity...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful dreamers

**Author's Note:**

> This is my work for the tumblr Johnlock Challenges Grab Bag, written for bubblesbythebeach’s prompt “Three nights in a row, now?” — “Not a big deal, Sherlock. It’s a wonder I can remember them at all. Just odd ones, like… Someone’s holding a wedding in the flat and then we go down an escalator to the beach or something. Harmless dreams that don’t make sense.” — “You must be so bored of them.” Hope it's okay :D

Sherlock abandoned Paganini’s Caprice No. 18 in C major and dropped the violin to his lap, watching from his chair with some fascination as his robe-clad flat mate padded into the kitchen and switched the kettle on.

_Dark circles, mouth set in a hard line, flexing sore shoulder, downstairs well after 10 a.m. Another night of interrupted sleep, then._

“Three nights in a row, now?” he asked cautiously. John had a tendency to be short-tempered when sleep deprived.

The doctor sighed and scratched the back of his neck. “Not a big deal, Sherlock.”

Sherlock continued twiddling the violin bow between his fingers, considering. “Anything I can do?”

“Doubt it,” John muttered, automatically preparing two mugs instead of just his own. He opened the refrigerator and stopped. He sighed again, clenching his hand into a fist. “We talked about this.”

“You said you didn’t object to my experimenting at home.”

“Yes, but I also asked you NOT to fill the refrigerator with anything that would look back at me.”

Sherlock twitched. Obviously the head had been a bit much, but this was not a head. Well, not all of a head…

“There is a face staring back at me, Sherlock,” John fumed. “Just a face. Two dead eyes looking up from between the eggs and the tomatoes I bought yesterday. Can you guess why I might be upset?”

“It’s perfectly contained,” Sherlock offered, rising to his feet and making his way into the kitchen. “It won’t have contaminated anything.”

John turned angry, blood-shot eyes in Sherlock’s direction. “That is not the point and you know it.”

Sherlock ducked his head in what he hoped was an appropriate expression of contrition. “Sorry.”

John snorted, retrieving the milk and sliding past him. “I just hate the disembodied things with eyes, yeah? It’s a little too much like a horror film.”

“Right.” Sherlock nodded his agreement, making a mental note to download a horror film for reference. _But which one? John would know. Shouldn’t ask him that now, though. Perhaps later. Or Lestrade might have a suggestion…_

“Tea?”

Sherlock glanced up to where John was holding the second mug out to him. He remembered to smile as he took it—John always appreciated the effort—and returned to his chair. John followed him. Sherlock sipped his tea and watched as the doctor settled into his own seat and did likewise. He needed more data, but knew better than to interrupt John’s first cuppa.

“What do you want?” John said finally, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“What do you recall about them? What is it about them that disturbs you?” Sherlock dove straight in, leaning forward as he pursued this interesting new puzzle. No cases on—John was as good a diversion as any other. _Perhaps better…_

“It’s a wonder I can remember them at all,” John muttered. “They’re…just odd ones, like…someone’s holding a wedding in the flat and then we go down an escalator to the beach or something. Harmless dreams that don’t make sense.”

“The same things? For the last three nights?” Sherlock cocked his head. “You must be so bored with them.”

“Not exactly the same thing every night—look they’re just fragments. And I-I don’t know why they’re waking me up. God knows they’re nothing like the PTSD nightmares I used to have.”

 _Hesitation. Interesting._ John was not being entirely truthful: something about the dreams was giving him pause and he almost certainly knew why. _Perhaps another approach._ “Three days, three days…so since we got back from Devon, then.” An unpleasant thought occurred immediately. “You’re certain these dreams have nothing to do with…”

“No,” John assured him. “No hounds or anything like that. Though no thanks to you.”

Sherlock sniffed. “It was important—”

“To the case,” John finished for him. “I know. Just saying: it was not the nicest thing to do to your flat mate.”

Sherlock waited for more, but John merely smiled at him fondly. _He’s forgiven me already. Why?_

“So you think you can crack this, do you?” John asked gently, taking another sip of tea.

“Your dreams? Yes.”

“Why does it interest you so much?”

Sherlock set his mug down on the floor. “Dreams are fascinating, John. They may be a window into the subconscious mind.”

“Really?” John looked surprised. “I would have thought dreams would be a little too esoteric for you.”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “I give no credence to rubbish about past lives or what have you, but I do not discount the idea that the average mind draws upon pleasant memories as well as traumas, expectations, anxieties, desires and disappointments when designing a nocturnal landscape.”

“The average mind,” John repeated. “Not you, then.”

“Of course I dream _._ I simply have greater control over what I dream about.”

“Do you?” John smirked, his expression entirely wicked. “Do you really? So you’ve never been surprised? Never woken to discover you’ve been dreaming about something unexpected or doing something you didn’t think you wanted to do?”

John waited; Sherlock stared back at him, puzzled. Finally, the good doctor waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why must everything be reduced to the primitively physical?”

“Because most people—average people—tend to think about it rather a lot,” John said, still grinning. “And so we tend to dream about it, too. You really expect me to believe you’ve never had a naughty dream? Or a wet one? Not ever?”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, sliding back in his seat. Well, this was not the direction he’d expected his enquiries to take. Not at all. _Where did things go off course?_ This was meant to reveal more of John to him—provide him with more insight into the man with whom he shared his home and his work. _Wait…_

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting that some of the ‘fragments’ that have been disturbing your rest represent you doing something you didn’t think you wanted to do? Something sexual?”

“Nice try. You first.”

Sherlock started to protest. He hesitated as he regarded the very determined set of his friend’s jaw. He sighed. _In the interest of science, then._ “Fine. Yes. I have had dreams of that kind, though not for some time. Obviously, my self-control for such things is relatively substantial.”

“So nothing recently? Not even Irene…?”

“No,” Sherlock snapped.

“Sorry, sorry,” John said skeptically, waving a hand. “That was far too hasty. You have, haven’t you?”

“I don’t wish to discuss it. Now, back to your dreams…”

“So you just no longer have dreams that make you wake up…you know…”

“For goodness sake, John! Can’t you think about anything but sex?” Sherlock stood and paced restlessly to the window.

“Of course I can. Obviously. I mean, look at my dreams: the one about the wedding and the beach had nothing to do with sex. At least I don’t think it did.” John sighed heavily then took another drink. “But dreams, supposedly, are all about vulnerability: the real you coming through and all that. I was just curious—since you seem so opposed to the idea of feelings or physical desires when you’re conscious—if your base human nature ever gets the better of you while you’re asleep.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why do you want to know?”

John shrugged, but his eyes were guarded. _Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere!_

“Yours has.” Sherlock concluded, turning his sharp gaze back to his flat mate. “YOU are conflicted and wakeful because your dreams represent your nature getting the better of you. Something sexual, or at least related to it in some way. You are hardly a blushing virgin, so it begs the question: what could you possibly be dreaming about that is waking you up in the middle of the night and preventing you from getting back to sleep? Or…who?”

John’s lips pursed. Sherlock knew he’d hit the mark.

“So not the events in these dreams, however unlikely, but the person or persons with whom they are shared. Interesting.” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, feeling very smug. “Whatever it is you are dreaming about doing with this person…persons?”

John looked pained. “Person.”

“Whatever the activity in question, it is not something you want to do with this person—at least not consciously. Something ‘naughty,’ or at least alluding to naughtiness. Such as a wedding…which would lead to a wedding night,” Sherlock felt a rush of pleasure at the colour tinting John’s cheeks. “Why would it bother you, then? What is it about this person? Is it someone you dislike? Nnnno…I doubt that would trouble you this way. It is possible to find someone you dislike attractive. Someone you—oh!”

Sherlock paused as John grimaced and swallowed hard. He lifted his mug to his lips, attempting to hide behind his tea.

“It isn’t the person themselves, but their gender,” Sherlock leaned in, delighted at having unearthed the truth. “You have always taken great pains to ensure everyone is aware you are not gay.”

John regarded the carpet. He looked so small. And…broken.

“John, I—” Sherlock felt a twinge of something— _Guilt?_ —at the wounded expression his friend turned to him. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Not your fault,” John muttered miserably. “It’s mine. I’m not bothered by the fact that I might have feelings for a man. Not really. Nothing wrong with being gay. Thing is, I honestly didn’t think I was.” He shook his head. “I’m bothered by the fact that I might have had these feelings for a while and I couldn’t see…if that’s what this means, it just caught me off guard, I guess.”

Sherlock returned to his chair and sat across from John. _Appropriate responses: commiseration. No, too impersonal. John is my friend. Comfort. Yes, that’s it. But how…_

Sherlock reached across the space between them and tentatively placed a hand on John’s knee, patting gently. He nearly recoiled when John’s free hand closed over his and clasped it tightly.

John squeezed once, twice, rubbing Sherlock’s palm into his bare skin and repeatedly grazing over Sherlock’s knuckles with his thumb.

_Why is he doing that? It is an intimate gesture, isn’t it? Not something a friend would do, surely? Then why..._

Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John’s. “Oh,” he breathed, noting John’s dilated pupils. “Oh,” he said again, suddenly feeling winded. He looked back down to the place where his hand was covering John’s bare knee.

_John’s bare knee. Bare thigh. He isn’t wearing pyjamas—is he wearing pants? Bare hip. Bare…._

Sherlock jumped back as though scalded. He had risen to his feet again and managed to put at least two feet between himself and John at the same time.

“Sherlock…”

“No. It’s fine. It’s all…fine.” He cleared his throat, waiting for the panic to pass.

John stood and approached him, a little warily. _Why does he look so worried?_

“Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John started, reaching out. “I know you aren’t interested in…this. You’ve told me you’re married to your work, and I respect that. I didn’t mean to put this on you. I didn’t mean for it to happen, if it did happen. Bloody hell." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I have no idea what I’m trying to say.”

“Perfectly understandable.” Sherlock attempted his best patronizing voice. He sincerely hoped it was believable. “We work very closely together. And our last case involved heightened emotions and significant psychological upheaval as a result of the drug we were both exposed to. In fact, that is a very salient point. Perhaps I should take some samples and test for any residual traces. I’ll go and do my own now; I’ll do yours later, shall I?”

He was already two-thirds of the way to his room when he finished the last. He attempted to look nonchalant as he dove through the open door and slammed it behind him. He leaned against the wood, pressing sensitive fingertips into his own wrist.

 _Elevated pulse._ He moved swiftly to the mirror on the wall. _Dilated pupils._

“No.”

Sherlock stared back at the evidence of his body’s treason. “No,” he repeated, as though simply refusing to accept what was physically obvious would eliminate its existence.

He turned and fell back against the wall with a thump, slowly sliding to the floor. He drew his knees in and wrapped his arms around them.

_This is not supposed to happen. Not to me._

Certainly, he was more than aware that he had been attracted to John initially. His own dreams following their first awkward conversation at Angelo’s place were the _very naughty_ evidence of that. But it was merely an autonomic response to an attractive man, wasn’t it?

_Who wouldn’t be attracted to John Watson?_

Sherlock groaned, burying both hands in his hair and dropping his forehead to his knees. This was all wrong. This was not what he wanted. Feelings were a weakness—and a very dangerous one—as Irene had so eloquently proved. John was his colleague. His friend, nothing more.

He thought he’d mastered his physical responses to the man more than a year ago. And he had been comforted by the good doctor’s insistence on his heterosexuality and continued dalliances with those ridiculous women. _Well, Sarah had a bit more wit than the rest, but still…_

Sherlock’s head snapped up. He bit his lip.

 _Is that…jealousy? Could it—? No._ Just a perfectly reasonable reaction to his friend dating stupid, unworthy… _Oh, god._

Sherlock’s sharply indrawn breath echoed in the still room. He’d hated them—every single one of them. And, yes, he’d found ways to interfere with John’s relationships when- and wherever possible.

Like a jealous lover.

_Lover._

Sherlock could feel the very uncomfortable response in his trousers to the very graphic images now filling his mind.

And he was not dreaming.

__________________________

It was well past midnight when Sherlock finally attempted to escape his bedroom.

He’d paced away most of the afternoon, arguing with himself and attempting to overrule his body. They were only dreams, after all. They did not mean John was in love with him—not necessarily. John had said so himself. No reason to turn their lives upside down.

But Sherlock needed to think. He needed to retreat for just a little longer. For that he required his violin.

He’d waited until the flat grew silent and the light under his door had been extinguished, indicating that John had finally retreated to his own room. He opened his door cautiously, peering through into the kitchen for any signs of life. Seeing none, he proceeded.

He paused briefly, noting the post-it stuck to the refrigerator door:

_Please eat. Leftover Chinese, next to the face. J_

The corners of his mouth turned up. John was always looking after him.

_No!_

Sherlock shook off the sentimentality of that train of thought. John was a reliable colleague and a capable physician, with a soldier’s instinct to protect and serve. Nothing more.

He tiptoed into the sitting room and moved directly to his chair where he had left his violin. As he reached for it, the light by the sofa snapped on.

Sherlock froze mid-stoop, startled. John was sitting on the sofa, now wearing only the t-shirt and boxers he normally slept in. He looked haggard—weary and sad.

“So you’ve emerged at last.”

Sherlock straightened, torn between the desire to flee and the need to be in John’s presence.

“Violin,” he blurted.

John nodded, standing. He crossed the floor, closing the distance between them.

_Friend. Colleague. John smells like Earl Grey tea. Dreams may be interesting but they are not reliable—they could mean anything. John’s hair is rumpled; I could smooth it back down. He dreamt about a wedding. Our wedding? Love is a chemical defect. Mr. Sherlock Watson-Holmes…_

John stopped in front of him, the dark blue eyes searching. “I wish I could track the way your mind works,” he said softly. “I’d love to know what’s going on up there right now.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but could not think of what to say. John stepped a bit closer. They were in touching distance now. _Touching…_

“I should say that they’re just dreams and they don’t mean anything,” John started. “But I can’t. Because I-I think they might. Mean something.”

“I…I see.”

“No, you don’t,” John smiled sadly at him. “I want to find out if I’m feeling what I think I am, but I won’t push. I won’t entertain this if it is not something—if you don’t…”

_Tell him! Tell him now! You are over-reacting to your dreams, John. You are overtired and not thinking clearly. I am your friend, but I have no desire to enter into a romantic or physical relationship with you. I have avoided such entanglements all my life because feelings are a liability I cannot afford. I do not wish to clutter my mind with sentimentality. Tell him!_

“I love you.”

Sherlock felt all the breath leaving his body as the words escaped his lips _. What have I done?_

“You—what?” John’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

_Retract! Deny! Obfuscate!_

“I love you.” _Wrong!_

“Sherlock, you don’t have to say that if you don’t—I mean, I—god, I can’t even tell you how that makes me feel, but if this is some kind of weird experiment…”

Sherlock shook his head, numb. He bit hard on the traitorous tongue he could no longer seem to control. _John, John, John…_

His doctor watched him carefully for a moment, his gaze calm and assessing. “Do you really mean that?”

_Last chance: shake your head! Tell him it was a mistake!_

“Yes.” _Damn it!_

John’s smile was radiant; Sherlock could not help but reflect it. The cold terror that had been fighting to overwhelm the pleasant warmth at the thought of loving John Watson was finally vanquished.

_Nothing to be frightened of. It’s just my John._

John reached up and touched his cheek. It was an uncertain caress.

“Can I—I’d really like to—“

Sherlock nodded again, leaning into John’s touch. He closed his eyes and waited.

Slowly, slowly, he felt the heat of John’s breath on his face and the soft, wet touch of John’s mouth against his lips.

_Pressure? Do I push back? How hard? Oh! Tongue? Should I….oh, yes…god, yes. John, John, John…_

The kiss moved swiftly from light, tender and tentative to mind-numbingly erotic. Sherlock clung to John as the shorter man explored his mouth, helpless against the deluge of sensation. John held him fast at the nape of his neck, tugging on the dark curls there. Sherlock groped for balance, finally fastening one hand to John’s good shoulder and flattening one against his chest. John moved to drag their bodies together, providing Sherlock with unmistakable evidence of his arousal.

John moaned; Sherlock shuddered.

The doctor pulled back, panting. “Sorry. Sorry. I shouldn’t have taken that so far.”

The two men stared at one another. Sherlock noted John’s accelerated breathing—it mirrored his own. A rush of blood to the more erogenous zones of his body, heart pounding in his ears… _Is this what love feels like?_

“I think,” John began softly, stroking a thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “We can safely say that this is something we both want to pursue. Yes?”

Sherlock nodded again, uncertainty suddenly creeping in.

“You’re frowning. What’s wrong?” John asked, his brow furrowed.

“I have never…that is to say, I don’t know how—” Sherlock stumbled over the words.

John stared at him for a moment then his brow cleared. A kind smile curled his mouth. “Are you saying that you’ve never been with anyone? Is that it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, feeling both relief and just a twinge of mortification. His voice was gruff as he stared at the floor. “They were right. As it happens, I _am_ a blushing virgin.”

John nudged his chin back up until their eyes met and then smoothed a hand down Sherlock’s chest. “Nothing wrong with that. We’ll deal with it when the time comes. But we aren’t in any hurry to get there, are we?”

“We’re not?”

“I love you, too, Sherlock,” John confirmed. “And I want to figure out how that will work before we start anything else.” He grinned. “I may think about it a lot, but sex can wait until we’re both ready.”

“John, what if I can’t do this? I don’t want to lose you.”

“I’m your man, Sherlock.” John stretched up and kissed his cheek. “You will never lose me, no matter what.”

Sherlock released the breath he’d been holding. He relaxed into John’s embrace, allowing the doctor’s strong arms to enfold him. He dropped his chin to John’s shoulder and wrapped both arms around his waist. They stayed that way for long minutes.

_I am in a relationship. John loves me and I love him. I want to make him happy. How? How can I make him happy?_

_Yes, of course._

_I will take the face out of the refrigerator…_

“I don’t know about you, but I need some rest,” John chuckled finally.

“Yes. Fine. Good.” Sherlock withdrew slightly, letting his arms drop to his sides. He waited, expecting John to leave the room and go upstairs. He glanced up to find John standing a few steps away, reaching back for him with one hand.

“Coming?” John smiled. “Just to sleep, of course. I would very much like to have you beside me tonight.”

Sherlock stepped forward slowly, a little awkwardly. "I-I would like that, too." He took John’s hand and followed as the man led him toward the extra bedroom.

Sherlock started when John laughed out loud suddenly—a short, happy burst.

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking.” John looked back at Sherlock with a wink. “We should have some very interesting dreams to talk about tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY--decided to change the title. Too many other things already existing that sounded similar--I should have checked first!!!


End file.
